In a room filled with the scent of oud, a boy sat on a worn-out chair in front of the computer. His hair was black, clearly combed but still in disarray—an intentional mess.His eyes were not truly dark; you might think so at first glance, but on closer look, you'd deny that.
All he did was listen to music and play games. Sometimes he got angry at losing, but he remained determined to keep playing.Finally, he stood up from the chair, raised his arms like someone about to surrender, and closed his eyes for a moment, expressing his joy at winning.
"Ugh... I'm the weakest player in the world and I'm winning now."
Suddenly, the music stopped, and he felt a strange drop in temperature— not like ordinary cold, but more like a heavy void surrounding his body. His mind, which tended to exaggerate, added a false layer of strangeness.His heart pounded strongly from the feeling of fear—the fear of death. At that moment, he wanted to blame someone: why appear like this, right now?
A distant noise began to creep into his ears, first as mysterious whispers, then as a loud meaningless roar. He slowly opened his eyes.Sunlight hit them, and when the scene, which at first seemed like a mirage, became clear, he saw that he was not in the same place. He was the same person—same face, same mind—but the place was different. He was not himself.
He felt dozens of eyes upon him, yet he looked at none of them. What he wanted to see was the ground beneath his feet, then the sky—an incredibly blue and beautiful sky.If it had taken the form of a girl, wars would have been fought for her beauty. He did not know why he committed these acts—perhaps to be sure of his doubtful existence.
He aimed his eyes at those frozen in place, as if time had suddenly coagulated them. The expressions of astonishment began to fade from their faces, as if they had witnessed something incomprehensible and unspeakable.Those looks never broke; they insisted on clinging to their trivial expressions. Then, without warning or explanation, they moved again as if nothing had happened.No one looked back; they simply proceeded with precise steps, leaving no room for logic. They were strangers—not only in their forms but in their actions that silently cursed his existence.
Then he heard a distorted sound, closer to a muffled noise mixed with faint screams. The sound came from his right, from a man searching and shouting with terrified eyes, uttering something unintelligible.Suddenly, someone collided with him. The man fell and lay on the ground, motionless, without resistance. Passersby trampled over him one by one; some stepped on him unintentionally—or so it seemed—but most did so with strange awareness, as if emptying something inside themselves.No one stopped. No one bent to help him. Only steps continued to fall over the collapsed body that no longer existed.
He did not try to approach or extend a helping hand. All he did was avert his gaze, with an empty look of pity, lacking the weight of action or hope of benefit. That was all he could do for that man.Even he felt disgusted with himself. He imagined that if he had been in that situation, he would have been the hero who saves, but now he was the one who ignored.
He stood leaning against the wall where fewer passersby were, listening to a group of people talking loudly, indifferent to their surroundings. Their words were fragmented and disconnected, but he caught some scraps: "we," "today," "benefit."
The problem was not what they said but what they stirred inside him—a sudden feeling as if someone had ripped off his skin and replaced it with another.He felt strange about himself. Moments ago, he was certain of his being and mind, and now he was interrogating himself, perhaps to know his problem and what was going on inside him.
"What has changed?"
He felt there was no answer unless his own soul would grant it—but which soul was this? The soul of yesterday? Or a new soul still pretending to be him?
"The same mind, the same person…" he said to himself, but did not believe it.
When he approached closer, dragging behind him his desire to kill his curiosity and ignorance, he found no traces as he hoped. Everything grew more complicated. The talk was mixed with confusion and broken speech.Every sentence he heard was like mud drowning his mind the more he thought: how could his mind produce meaning from words he did not understand? It was as if the words understood him, not the other way around.
He tried to understand the situation from another angle, saying anything to prove he was not crazy, but what came out of him was not his language or even a language he knew. The words were understandable but unfamiliar.
He stopped one of the passersby, and given the nature of the people he had seen earlier, he did not really expect the person to stop and give him some time.
He said to him in a steady voice, though he was not expecting an answer so much as watching the reaction:
— I don't see any shop here… Can you direct me to a shop?
The reply came more polite than necessary, decorated with a tone of reverence, as if energy had flowed inside him and the matter had become worth more attention than before:
— This neighborhood is not favored by merchants because of thefts and crimes. If you really want decent shops, sir, go to the neighborhoods near the honored palace.
But what was going through Samer's mind then was completely different. Time stopped for a moment inside him, and the words he was hearing froze:"Can I speak and understand this language?" he said in a voice choked with astonishment.He continued, "This language I have never heard before!"
He understood what was being said to him clearly, and even replied in a language that was supposed not to be his own. Yet, he felt no difficulty in pronouncing the words, as if these words were ancient within him, sleeping deep in his subconscious, only waiting to be called out from a long slumber.
Only moments ago, he was trapped in an overwhelming feeling of isolation, almost certain that any communication with this world would be impossible—especially as the clothes of its inhabitants seemed to come from a distant culture, a culture so vastly different, as if insisting on reminding him that he was a stranger... an intruder.
A woman passed by him with unevenly sized ears, her face full of unnecessary details, and hair that might be considered a lost paradise for onlookers. She created a stark contrast with the sky, as if she were the synonym for ugliness—no, far worse than that. He noticed her presence and felt disgust but didn't comment—he had no right to.
He walked with the faceless crowd, didn't ask for directions because the question seemed inappropriate—he didn't intend to reach a real destination, nor did he know where he was going. He stared at the nearby and distant buildings, lined up on both sides of the road, appearing as if they were crumbling silently, their eroded facades whispering their memories: "What have they lost us for?"
Then, amidst a deafening silence, a chasm was born from a sharp scream—a commotion that left no doubt it was a call for help. But what was it screaming for? Everyone heard it, of course they did, but he witnessed with his own eyes how people trembled without showing a tremble, how their eyes widened for a moment before shrinking in a masterful act of deafness, then they continued… with the same rhythm, same steps, and the same rigid face.
Samer moved forward—not brave, nor claiming to be brave—but he did not feel fear. And what was there to fear? The unknown? That thing that had become an essential part of everything around him? There was no time to think about the unknown… not because the situation forbade it, but because the unknown was no longer the exception—it was the rule.
He entered an alley; every step he took drowned him in a calamity he did not comprehend. The sound of sobbing grew louder the deeper he went—echoing from wall to wall, its vibrations made his head unable to think clearly. Clarity was useless; he wasn't going to think of anything useful. He didn't want to burden his mind.
At the alley's crossroads, he saw his destination—or what he thought was his destination—this mystery his mind had been weaving with threads of suspicion and doubt, now clearly embodied: a child barely past adolescence held captive between two arms stealing her freedom. She was more like a violet flower that had grown in the wrong place, wrapped in decay without its innocence being spoiled. Silk seemed to steal glances at her hair; her eyes were capable of intoxicating the thoughts of anyone who stared into them. Her mouth was covered by a dirty hand; her crying was barely audible, as if her voice was searching for an escape into attentive ears.
She looked at the shadow standing at the edge of the alley—it was none other than Samer. His presence appeared in her eyes as a small window in a suffocating wall. A faint relief flowed inside her—that kind of relief that comes after inhaling polluted air simply because it is different from suffocation. She whispered in a barely audible, weak, exhausted voice, "Help me…"
The two attackers slowly raised their heads; their eyes settled on Samer standing there. He bit his chin at the sight, not moving even though his body was not restrained. He could move, yes, he could step forward and speak, do something… but an invisible heaviness inside him, something unseen, pulled him down as if deciding to move was a rope strangling him, a rope woven from fear, doubt, and self-disgust all at once.
One of them said with a look of disdain:— What do you want?
— I just…
Without warning, a man came out from one of the corners and shouted at them, "Stop!" His tone carried a faint plea, like trying to convince the dead to break their silence. Did anyone hear him? To whom was he speaking? To the wall? To the walls that witness but do not speak?
One of the attackers moved without a word—no need for words or justification—just a clenched fist and a face twisted with hatred. The punches rained on him, and in a hopeless moment, the man found no weapon but his trembling hands. He raised them to absorb the blows, like a drowning man lifting his arms toward the surface—not to survive but to delay drowning, until he collapsed under the relentless blows.
As for Samer, he did not utter a word. His stance was ambiguous, and that was what was most terrifying: his rational neutrality, that invisible barrier separating him from everything happening—as if he were merely a witness with no power to influence or participate.
Among all those strange faces and tattered clothes he saw, this man lying on the ground did not resemble them. He was different. His clothes were clean—not in terms of cleanliness, but the familiarity in them. His face… less harsh than the faces Samer had seen before. Yet, he was not gentle; he possessed a quiet masculinity. The fresh wound on his cheek seemed unhealed, and his hair, stopped growing at the ears—everything about him reminded Samer of something.
Suddenly, he emerged from the void as if he had sprung from the same cold air sneaking through the buildings. No sound of footsteps. The shadows, the walls, the four present, and the one absent—all turned toward him. He was tall, with features that accepted no playfulness or frivolity. His gray hair was not the usual gray but the color of time resigning from everything. His clothes were decorated with patterns bearing unknown meaning, milky in color and shades, broken by crimson lines.
Without announcing his presence or making his steps echo in the place, he flowed like a gentle breeze slipping through the cracks of the old walls toward the attackers. His movement held no hesitation, and his eyes told no mercy—only the experiences of time that gray the head. Eyes that knew exactly what must be done. He toppled the first with a light shove, and a moment later the second followed with the same ease.
At the same time, the girl ran to the man lying on the ground. Her eyes held traces of tears, hiding behind him like a shadow too timid to appear.
She hid behind him… behind that frail body that raised its fist not to exert power but to resist the idea of surrender. And at that moment, Samer had to decide:
"Should I call him brave? Or foolish? Can that rush be explained as courage? And the girl? She wouldn't have survived without chance… If that stranger hadn't appeared, the end would have been clear—a slow, silent death, two bodies tossed in a forgotten corner of this rotten world… Isn't this the truest definition of foolishness? To stand against a dilemma with no plan and no strength… Is he brave? Or was he just… not smart enough to be afraid? How could I say that? In the end, I was no different from those people…"
He thought silently, trying to convince himself that his survival was no coincidence but a predetermined fate. Yet deep inside, he wished he had fallen in that unforgettable moment.